


Walsingham's Christmas Carol

by psychomachia



Category: Dark Is Rising Sequence - Susan Cooper
Genre: Gen, Yuletide 2004
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:36:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychomachia/pseuds/psychomachia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas is the time for telling tales. Not all of them can end well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walsingham's Christmas Carol

It had been five months since Adam had been to the club, and we had thoroughly given up on seeing him again. Last week, I had suggested he might be over in France, but Oliver reminded me that Adam had a marked distaste for the continent. Oliver in turn thought Adam had decided to visit his aunt in Scotland, which seemed quite reasonable, until we both remembered she had been dead for at least three years.

Thus, it came as a shock when as we rose to leave for the evening, we spotted Adam sitting in a darkened corner of the club. His hands were gripping a full snifter of brandy. Oliver tugged my arm and we made our way over there, pulling up nearby chairs.

"Adam, where the deuce have you been? Why didn't you say you were here?" Oliver asked loudly, never one to lengthen a conversation with any pleasantries.

He looked up at us, clearly caught off-guard. "Oliver," he said, trailing off as he lowered his gaze again to peer at the brandy as if it had changed into gin when he wasn't looking.

Oliver bent very close to him. "Is there a new woman?" He looked over at me briefly, and then amended. "A new man?"

Adam now clearly glared at him. I didn't appreciate the reference either.

But I was curious. "Adam, just what have you been up to? No one's heard from you in months."

Adam's shoulders slumped and he seemed to have drifted off again. I thought I might have had to ask him the question again, when he straightened up.

"You remember Francis Hamilton? From school?"

Vaguely, I remembered that name, though I confessed I hadn't been paying that much attention to society news. Francis was not one of our closer friends, and Oliver and I had lost track of many other acquaintances over the years, thanks to some engrossing studies.

Oliver nodded at Adam; more to keep Adam talking, I was sure, than out of a real remembrance of a distant classmate.

"Well, this story concerns him," Adam said quietly.

*************

"Francis Hamilton had never been very bright, I know, but that has never stopped anyone from being a success in our society. He was charming enough and generally schooled in the sort of subjects that keep people interested in conversations.

It was late July when we met again at the Ashby party. I had not seen Francis in a year, as both of us seemed to miss each other at parties with a great regularity. We greeted each other, and he began to talk to me about his new acquisitions.

That had always been the problem with Francis. No matter what issue our conversation turned to, it would inevitably find its way back to him. He was engagingly self-centered, his charm added by the fact that he was so very enthusiastic about himself and felt you should be, too. His conversation tended to be borne out of the lack of depth of his knowledge; a resource he would exhaust if dwelled upon for more than five minutes.

We had been chatting about his new horses and what splendid creatures they were, when I saw Stephen Ashby make his way over, accompanied by a red-haired gentleman in dark clothing. Stephen's appearance I had expected with a certain amount of resignation, but I had never seen the other man before.

"Hamilton, Walsingham," he said, "I would like to introduce you to Mr. Mitothin. I met him during the hunt last week and thought he should be introduced to some more of the local gentry."

"Mitothin's a rather interesting last name," Francis said. "I don't believe I've heard it before."

"Not surprising but I assure you it's quite old," Mitothin said.

I was uncomfortable at first, as you know it takes me some time to become familiar with people, but Mitothin proved himself a genial acquaintance. He addressed his remarks to all of us, keeping the flow of conversation moving at a good pace. We had just begun to talk about what the odd celestial event over in Russia, when Francis broke in with one of his inevitable interruptions.

"I suppose you may have heard I have purchased some new horses." Francis looked proud at the fact, though those of us who had heard it before were less appreciative of it being brought up again.

Mitothin looked interested, however. "Really? No doubt they are quite good."

Francis preened. "They are some of the best horse flesh in the county."

"I wonder, perhaps, if you have seen my horse. I believe it is rather fine as well. You might appreciate it as you seem quite interested in equestrian matters."

As this was precisely the sort of subject that would usually garner Francis's utter devotion for an evening, he and Mitothin excused themselves briefly to go outside. This left me with Stephen, unfortunately, whose conversational attempts were hampered by the exceeding amount of brandy he had already drank.

I successfully extricated myself after ten minutes, and spent the next hour making light conversation with a variety of dull individuals. At last, I spotted Francis, who was evidently on his own at that point.

"Well, Francis, is it a fine horse?"

He looked fiercely to his right, and in the distance, I spotted Mitothin engaging in a new conversation with Stephen, who seemed far livelier than when I had spoke to him. "It is indeed a fine horse, the best I have ever seen . . . like no other horse on earth."

I looked incredulously at him. Francis was prone to overstatement, especially after a glass or two. "That seems a bit of an exaggeration, Francis. I am sure it is a fine horse, but it is just a horse."

At this, Francis fixed his gaze intently upon me. "I saw it, Adam. It is a great black beast, and I imagine it would ride like the wind." He was also prone to misplaced poetry after he had drunk.

I sighed, of course. Francis in a fixation meant that he would make all attempts to retrieve the object of desire. I consoled myself remembering that once he had obtained what he desired, he generally tended to ignore it. Gwen could attest to that. Upon acquiring this horse, he would likely move on to another desire.

Francis suddenly turned his attention away from me, and I saw Mitothin was taking his leave from Stephen. I watched as Mitothin lifted his eyebrow when he saw Francis determinedly making his way. He smiled again, and Francis was once again in one of his acquisitional moods.

It was a few hours later, perhaps eight, when I ran into Francis again. It was clear something had gone amiss.

"Do you know what he said to me?" Francis hissed, after I succeeding in making him semi-coherent.

I avowed I did not.

"I offered him a significant amount for the horse. He refused, stating that he could not possibly be parted from it." Francis hit his fist against the wall. "After all, he said, how could he be a rider without his horse."

"What did he mean by that?"

"I don't know and I don't care. He never took any of my offers seriously."

"Then what do you intend to do, Francis?

"Something. I just don't know yet that will be." With that, Francis left, stomping down the hall.

Throughout the evening, I could feel Francis seething. I knew that it irked him, having something he could not buy or bargain for. He had never been denied, a tribute both to his charm and to his single-minded obsessiveness.

Mitothin, on the other hand, had managed to leave a vague, but charming impression upon everyone. No one really remembered the substance of his conversation, but we were all convinced it had been both witty and insightful.

It took me nearly an hour to realize I had not seen Francis around the party. It wasn't that surprising, considering I expected him to leave in a huff, having been so thoroughly rebuffed by Mitothin. What was surprising, however, was that he had taken Mitothin's horse, after all.

But when informed of Francis' escapade, Mitothin barely seemed concerned.

"I understand young men can be impulsive," he said. "I'm sure that someone will find him sleeping under a tree somewhere. My horse does not take kindly to strange riders and will no doubt let him know that."

As some of my friends left, I chose to search on foot for Francis. Mitothin joined me. As we were walking along the edge of the woods we chatted politely about the works of Chesterton, Mitothin taking the opinion that they were rather naive for our times. There is very little I remember of that conversation, save for this.

"But Chesterton is a clergyman," he said. "It is to be expected that he sees evil as a solid force, as an anarchist or a violent atheist. No doubt he sees it as something that can be defeated by some force of God--a knight or priest of some sort."

"And you do not, I suppose?"

"I believe in human weakness. Men choose on their own, and they always fall on their own."

"Without any assistance?"

He smiled again. "Perhaps. Nonetheless I am sure you will see before long that it is far easier for a man to just fall than it is for a man to fight against falling."

It was another twenty minutes before we found Francis indeed lying upon the ground, Mitothin's horse calmly standing beside a tree. Mitothin went over to his horse, patting it down. It nuzzled him, which seemed inappropriate given its otherwise intimidating stance. Of this, Francis was not lying. It was indeed terrifyingly beautiful.

As I approached Francis I reached down to wake him without success. He was dead--his neck broken. I sat there numbly, remembering his words of how the horse would fly like the wind, and I wondered if it had felt that way, as he flew off the horse.

I had no idea how long I sat there before I stood up and turned to Mitothin, aware that he was still there. He had already mounted his horse. His silhouette towering above me, large in the night--he tipped his hat to me.

"I suppose you will have to wait here by yourself. Your friends will be by soon. Unfortunately, I must be off, for I have appointments and the hour is quite late. You may not be able to contact me should there be any questions." Upon my confused look, he smiled gently and added. "But I do not suppose there will be any."

He was right, of course, that there weren't any questions. When the rest of the party joined me, there was nothing much that could be said. Francis was drunk, he had stolen a horse in a fit of pique, and somehow he had lost his grip on the horse. Knowing how impulsive Francis was, and how riding accidents happened all the time to far more cautious individuals, the reasoning seemed simple. It was lamentable, said some of the older guests, but really, young people had to be more careful."

I did not see Mitothin again nor did anyone ask about him. Francis's death seems to have faded into a cloud of memory, as if it was an event that happened ten years ago rather than a few months."

*******************

We were quiet for a few minutes. I could hear the clinking of glasses from around us, the rustle of papers, the movement of men making their way outside to beat the storm.

"So why did you just drop out of sight?" Oliver asked. "You and Francis were hardly close."

"I could not be around people for a while. Every time I looked at someone, I thought of what Mitothin had said. Then I saw weakness all around me. I thought of men falling through their own choices. And I wondered just what sort of help we were getting and from whom."

Jonathan looked surprised at him. "You can't honestly believe anything supernatural happened. Francis was always reckless and even more so when he drank."

Adam stared steadily at us. "I know what I saw. I know what I heard. I believe that there is a growing darkness in the world. It's not the Devil or some concoction out of Chesterton. I think it's always been here, and whatever it is, it's making its presence known even more."

"And I suppose Francis was too much in its way and that's why he was murdered?" Oliver asked doubtfully. I had to agree with him. Francis had not been the type for noble deeds, despite his glorious claims at parties.

Adam smiled. His eyes showed no mirth. "Francis was hardly a knight. But I don't think that was the point."

None of us knew what to say after that. I saw Oliver glance uneasily at me, which I avoided returning by staring outside at the snow, now beginning to fall quite heavily. After a moment, we watched Adam finish his brandy, then cling to the empty glass in his hands.

At last, he rose and set the glass down. "I should leave before it becomes impossible." We sat quietly while he gathered his coat and threw down some coins to cover his bill. He left, none of us having moved since his last statement.

Oliver and I left a few minutes later, quietly taking our leave of each other once we made it outside the door. I knew I would most likely see him next week at our usual time. We had made no plans to ask about Adam again. I knew we would not see him.


End file.
